Europa
by Phenakite
Summary: It's the war the press swiftly dubbed WW3: America and China are facing off and searching for allies. Europe remains stubbornly neutral, but for how long can they hang onto peace, when both sides believe they're secretly helping the other? Terrible summary... Rated T for language, violence and death.
1. Chapter 1

His fingers hovered over the keys of the phone. Outside wind and rain smashed against the walls of the house. Not even the weather could keep from warring. Mind raging with hesitation and doubts, he tapped out the familiar rhythm of numbers and waited.

_He hasn't answered before; he's not going to answer now_, nagged the tiny voice inside his head. _Just give up already._

He listened hard, straining for any sign of a voice at the other end of the line. 6,000 miles away a phone would be ringing. And ringing. And ringing.

An all too familiar answering machine kicked in and the receiver of the phone smashed against its base.

Every day, for nearly a year, England had tried to phone Japan. And, every day, Japan ignored him. England knew it would be stressful for him – after all, the scars of the Second still ran deep within the Rising Sun's blood, but he just wanted to check Japan was okay. How could he be sure that he was safe when they couldn't even talk?

England closed his eyes. Behind dark lids he saw America – his friend, no… his son – smiling slightly as his own little boy fell from the sky.

_"This is a mistake," England had said. China might have nodded; he wasn't sure._

_"Maybe," America replied, "but we're in the right. We must be or He would not have delivered the bomb into our hands, would He?"_

_"You mean God?" England had asked._

_America nodded._

_England looked away. God had no role in this. This was evil; he could see that now. The Second ended six days later. Japan had never quite been the same since. Who could blame him?_

He opened his eyes and shook his head hard. Regrets. Every country had their own fair share of them. England glanced at the phone once more. He picked up the receiver and dialled a slightly less familiar number. Took a deep breath.

"_Ciao_!" the voice on the other end of the line sang.

"Hello. Italy?"

"Yeah."

"This is England. I… wanted to speak to Germany."

"Oh, sorry. He said I can't let anyone see him," Italy said quietly. "He's… I don't think he's very well and I don't know what to do."

"Bad memories?"

There was an uncharacteristically long silence. "Yes."

England nodded and then realised that Italy couldn't see that. He tried to think of something else to say.

"What am I supposed to do?" Italy wailed. "Normally, Germany would help me, but he can't do that right now. Do I talk to him about it all, or do I distract him or-"

England hung up. He felt bad. Very bad. But he had no words of consolation for Italy.

Germany was brooding; Japan was going back to his old ways; Russia and China were getting friendlier and friendlier; and America… he was scarier every day. The world was spiralling out of control.

He needed a walk. England marched to the hall and wrenched open the front door of his house. He stepped into a full-on English downpour, but paid no attention to the way his hair was already plastered to his forehead. Wind whipping around him, he headed anywhere and nowhere - deep into the storm.

"Whoa! Wait a minute!" barely out of the door and already someone was onto him.

England twisted round to face the voice, hands deep in his pockets. "What?"

"It's not safe out here," the latest of his bosses rushed towards him, cowering under an umbrella threatening to turn inside out, "you're supposed to stay inside."

No reply.

"Where are you going, anyway?" the boss – England couldn't quite remember this one's name. David? Edward? – pushed his glasses further up his face. He tried to step forwards so that his umbrella would cover them both, but England backed away, into the cold rain like liquid bullets.

The silence stretched out between the country and the politician. Eventually England replied, "Walk."

Another silence replaced the first. "You're going to see America," the boss said, circling the country as if sizing him up.

England considered that for a moment. "Probably."

"About an alliance?"

England shook his head. The politician leaned in closer. "Our people need to see us doing something. They _want_ a war."

"Well I don't."

The politician paused. "They said you used to be a pirate," he said.

"They did," England replied.

"War wouldn't be anything new for you – how many countries _haven't_ you fought? We're ready: our army's bigger than ever; our citizens are high on patriotism; trident's-"

"DON'T," England shouted and immediately caught hold of himself, "even talk to me about trident," he whispered.

Another silence crashed against the two figures in the dark rain, like a black wave battering chalk cliffs.

"You need to go back inside," the boss said. "Europe's crawling with foreign soldiers and-"

"Let's leave Europe," England said.

The boss sighed. "We are _not_ having this argument again. You need friends and alliances and…"

_This boss really doesn't know when to stop talking_, England thought. "I have friends," he pointed out.

"Unicorns don't count."

This next silence was more threatening than awkward. "I'll go and negotiate with America," England said.

The boss scowled, but let England walk away. "Be careful," he said just before England got out of earshot. "World War Three is a dangerous place for a country with no friends."

England nodded and felt something inside him soften. Okay, so his boss was a worrier and stuck his nose where it wasn't wanted, but he did care and England knew that his country was in safe hands. He smiled and gave what for most people would be a half-hearted wave, but for England it was a massive gesture of friendliness.

* * *

England walked through the open door to America's house. "You should probably lock this," he shouted. "There _is_ a war on, you know."

A slight click sounded above England's head and he dodged out of the way just in time as what looked like a statue of the current president smashed into the floor where he had been standing.

America appeared with a disappointed look on his face. "England, you should have warned me it was you – you could've been hurt."

"Wh-What was that!" England exclaimed, understandably shocked and confused. Was this some strange hallucination that had manifested itself from his jetlag, or had America actually tried to crush him with a statue suspended from his ceiling?

"Oh, it's my latest secret weapon," America said happily, patting the half-shattered statue. "Enemy forces stand no chance against me. I leave my door invitingly open and they come in to kill me and die themselves."

"Ingenious," England said slowly, raking his fingers through his hair and frowning at the grey powder and stone chips that fell to the floor. Who hung statues from their ceiling, anyway? "What does your boss think?"

"She loves it," America grinned. "She told me to stay here and make a report on how well it worked. If it goes well, I'll spend a whole year sitting here, watching my doorway."

England sighed. "No, she's trying to get you out of her way, Ameri-"

"Chinese!" America screamed and dragged England to the floor.

"What?"

"I have this trap," America hissed, "you enter my house and a statue crushes you. It just got triggered."

England groaned. Yeah, this was why he hadn't been visiting America lately. "_I_ triggered your trap. There aren't any Chinese forces around here."

America frowned. "You sure?"

"Yes," England said forcefully and stood up. "Do you want me to cook for you? You look tired."

America thought for a moment, then nodded. "I'm the hero," he said. He was still crouched on the floor, surrounded by pieces of rubble from the statue, eyes wild and scared.

England smiled and nodded. "You're the hero." He left the room and headed to America's kitchen. _He'll be okay_, he told himself, _he'll be okay_.

* * *

America and England sat across from each other, a plate of fish and chips in front of each of them. "So," America said.

England waited for the rest of the sentence and then realised that it wasn't coming. "So?"

America nodded encouragingly. "So do it. Say it. Why did you come here?"

"Oh," England looked away. "I just wanted to know you were okay," he muttered.

America laughed. "You're shy," he said. "You don't want to say it. English guys like you always crack me up! Okay. I'll do it," he took a deep breath. "United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, will you form an alliance with me?"

England blinked. Couldn't move for a moment. America thought that he wanted to join forces with him. "I'm not really ready to fight," he said carefully. America had been so unpredictable lately. He did _not_ want his country to be invaded by the closest thing it had to an ally.

America waited for the 'but' after which England would exclaim that, despite all the hardships, he would ally with America and conquer the world. He was completely unaware of the awkward silence ticking away.

"I have to go," England said and stood up. He glanced around for an excuse to leave, then – having given up – simply ran as fast as he could.

America stared at the place where England had been standing. "Aw, maybe I rushed him," he said. "I'll let him suggest the alliance next time."


	2. Chapter 2

England arrived back at his house to find the rain and wind gone. A tense calm was spread over the land like a veil, the moon and stars overhead casting milky light over familiar landscapes, making them new and alien.

He reached out to unlock his door when it swung open of its own accord. "Are you all right?" England's boss immediately demanded.

"No, I'm unconscious and in the middle of an out of body experience," England answered and pushed past his boss into the hallway of his house.

"What were you thinking?" the politician growled. "You could've phoned to say you were alright! None of us knew what to think." He gestured at a crowd of people all stood awkwardly in England's hall. He stared at them. They were the current members of the cabinet, weren't they? He wasn't entirely sure.

England headed into the kitchen, his boss following behind. "Well, explain yourself," he said.

England rolled his eyes and grabbed a beer from the fridge, which his boss smoothly took out of his hands and tossed in the bin behind him. "No drinking in war time," he said. "You know it doesn't end well. Remember the battle of the Somme? And that time you burnt down all those monasteries?"

England shrugged. "You seem quite paranoid today," he commented.

The politician stared at him with wide eyes. "You didn't hear," he said.

"Didn't hear what?" England snapped, wishing his boss would just get to the point. He was worn out from travelling back from America's place.

The politician licked his lips nervously and flicked on the TV on the worktop. He switched it to BBC News. "Texas got bombed," he said.

"No," England couldn't tear his eyes away from the screen. A sea of rubble filled it from top to bottom while rescue workers fought to free the people trapped underneath. "No. When did this happen?" he demanded.

"Not sure exactly when," the politician admitted. "America tried to cover the whole thing up but, as you can see, that didn't exactly work. It must have been after you saw him, though, or you would've noticed, right?"

England nodded. "Yeah… His glasses represent Texas. If it was bombed they would have broken or something… Is he okay?"

"As far as I know, yes. I mean, it's not like the country was invaded."

England pressed his hands against his forehead. "America will retaliate," he said, "very soon missiles are going to be flying back and forth between China and America and any mistakes in flight paths could destroy swathes of Europe…" he tailed off at the expression on his boss's face. "The bomb _did_ come from China, didn't it?"

The politician shook his head. "Russia," he said. "Incredibly recently, North Korea and Russia have announced that they're allying with China."

England closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "And the rest of Europe is still preaching neutrality?"

The politician nodded. "It's only a matter of time before the Baltics snap and ally with Russia, though. Belarus, Ukraine and Poland won't be far behind."

"None of those is a threat really, though."

"Right," England's boss glanced at the other politicians, as if looking for support, "but once they've abandoned neutrality, the rest of Europe is likely to follow."

England sat down hard on the tiled floor, his legs no longer able to support him. "Including us," he whispered.

The boss nodded, along with all the other politicians. "Including us," he said.

The politicians tried to engage England in more conversation but, as politely as is possible, he ignored them. Eventually they drifted away, moving on to more pressing matters (such as a possible new tax on alcohol), and England was left alone once more.

He switched off the TV and contemplated trying to phone Japan again. No point. He knew that he'd just have to listen to that infuriating answerphone message again. Instead, England booted up the ancient PC in his study and typed out an email to all the other EU countries. In the absence of Germany – the usual chair of EU meetings – someone needed to pull the countries together and give support to the Baltic nations. As long as they remained neutral, the current name for this war (WW3) could hopefully remain inaccurate.

Within seconds a reply arrived from Estonia. He said that he appreciated Britain's support, but what right did he have to host an EU summit? They were always chaired by Germany, and England was no more important than any other EU country.

England asked Estonia if he'd talked to Germany lately and that shut him up. No-one really knew how to help the nation, not even Italy, although he certainly did his best. Then again, for Italy, that didn't mean much…

In case any other countries were questioning England's leadership, he added that (after Germany) the most likely candidates for leading the EU were France and himself. Most countries had spent long enough in the vicinity of France that England was confident they would back his leadership.

Before shutting down the computer, England also typed out an email to Germany. He knew he wasn't the best at etiquette in the world – normally you'd go to Japan if you needed to write a sensitive message – but Japan was being even more reclusive than Germany, and England knew that he was second best at staying polite, whatever the circumstances. Well, unless America was involved. Or France. Or if the person he was talking to was blatantly wrong… Okay, maybe England wasn't so good at being polite, but he had to try.

_Dear Germany,_

_I know this is a very difficult time for you, but we need you. Italy. Europe. The world. Unless we do something, this war is going to spiral out of control. America seems to think he can take on Brazil, China, Russia and North Korea on his own, although he is seeking allies. With Russia in the mix, Europe is going to end up split, once again, into east and west._

_All our efforts to remain neutral will be in vain._

_You know, better than any of us, what it's like to be torn apart in such a way. Unless we want our brothers to be our enemies once again, we need to do something._

_I'm hosting an emergency EU summit in two days' time. This is an invitation for you to join us. You needn't speak, or even listen to what's being said, but by appearing you will show the unity within Europe. The fact that nothing can force a rift between us anymore._

_Yours Sincerely,_

_The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland_

It was two hours before a reply came through. England hadn't really been expecting one at all.

_We are not united. I will come._

That was it. Seven words. But they were the only sign that Germany was still alive, or sane, that had left his borders in months.

For a moment, England debated trying once again to phone Japan. He changed his mind at the last second, half of Japan's phone number already dialled. England put the phone down. For Japan, nothing had changed. When he saw a united and fiercely neutral Europe, then Japan would come out of hiding. England was sure of it.

He headed to bed, but got up half an hour later to check his emails again. One had come through from Norway. Did this have to just be an EU meeting? All European countries were neutral and Iceland, for instance, could really do with the support the EU could offer.

England changed the upcoming meeting from an EU affair, to something Europe-wide. He called the new group, the European Council of War.

Within seconds France was telling him that that was stupid name and why would Europe's black sheep be leading a Europe-wide meeting, anyway? England shut down the computer and the phone immediately began to ring.

"I am not supposed to be this sociable!" he yelled at no-one in particular. He picked up the phone. "WHAT?"

"Um, h-hello. Is that the United k-kingdom of, um, Britain and Island?"

"Great Britain and Northern Ireland," England corrected, "I mean just England is fine, I mean: yes, that's me."

A few seconds of silence. "I-It's Latvia."

"Okay."

"Sealand just phoned a-and I thought you should be knowing," Latvia said. "He's allied w-with Mr. America."

England couldn't speak; his throat felt like it had closed up. Yes, Sealand was irritating and idiotic, but he was still England's little brother, and he would be no help in the war.

"He's just going to get himself killed," England said. "Shit… I know America likes guns, but giving them to little kids?"

"I know," Latvia said.

"Can you make it to the European Council of War meeting?" England asked.

Hesitation. "I-I think so. It is just being hard right now," Latvia swallowed the lump in his throat, "Russia is not liking us refusing to help him. Soon Lithuania will crack and I know that I will be being next."

"We're going to help," England said, "just hold on for two more days, okay?"

"Yes, thank you," Latvia hung up.

England rubbed his eyes and headed tentatively back to bed, vowing to curse the next country who interrupted his sleep.

* * *

The first meeting of the European Council of War was not going well. Italy was being strangely quiet – though that was probably more of a good thing; Prussia and Germany were both entirely silent and holding hands in a way that Austria could help but make entirely intelligent and mature comments about; Switzerland was happily explaining that anyone who so much as breathed on his (or Lichtenstein's) land would be blown to kingdom come; France was engaging Greece in a… exciting conversation, but Greece was already struggling to stay awake; the three Baltics were cowering away in one corner; and the Nordics were having an argument about whose flag had the best colours.

England glanced at Flying Mint Bunny, who was happily nibbling at Hungary's hair and shook his head hard. What would Germany do in this situation? Germany wouldn't _be _in this situation; all the countries were so scared of him that they'd do whatever he said…

England sat down and stared at the top of the table. "_Pam na fydd y bobl hyn fod yn dawel?_" he said, in a quiet voice. The Nordics stopped their argument and stared at him. "_Ni all y gwynt yn cael ei glywed. Ni all y dŵr yn cael ei glywed. Ni all y ddaear yn cael ei glywed. Ni all y tân yn cael ei glywed_," now about half the room had noticed what England was doing and all of them who weren't still blissfully unaware had shut up. "_Gadewch iddyn nhw losgi. Gadewch iddyn nhw farw. Marwolaeth yn dod tawelwch. Tawelwch yn dod â marwolaeth._"

By the last sentence there was not a sound in the room, save for England's voice. When he finally looked up, every county was staring at him with wide eyes. "Can I speak now?" England asked.

A slow nod from most of the countries round the table.

England sighed. "America, South Korea and Sealand are allied to the west. Apparently, India may be joining forces with them. China, Russia and North Korea are allied to the east. Europe has remained neutral up to now, but with a large bomb detonated in Texas, and the fact that the first European country has broken neutrality, we need to work together, okay?"

"But we never work together," Romano said. "You name two of us who could. Go on."

England smiled slightly. "Lithuania and Poland. Germany and Italy. Sweden and Finland. Austria and Hungary. Norway and Iceland. Estonia and Latvia. Switzerland and Lichtenstein. You and Spain."

Romano turned away with a sour expression on his face, but he didn't argue.

"We may be different," England says, "but we need to work together in this. Remember the First? Remember the Second? Do we really want a Third on our hands? A great man from our own continent once said, 'I do not know how the Third World War will be fought, but I can tell you what they will use in the Fourth — rocks!' We can't let the world come to that."

"So what's, like, the point of this meeting except for some lame pep talk?" Poland asked.

"Russia," England said. "I'm worried that some of us will be threatened into following him into an alliance with China."

Everyone room stared at the Baltics, apart from the Baltics who stared at Belarus.

She looked away. "It is true that I love my brother dearly, but my country is not ready for the war and I am hoping that he will see my peace and follow it. I do not want him to be dying."

England nodded and looked questioningly at Ukraine. "I was told not to have anything to do with Russia," she said, "my boss was very firm about it. I will be remaining neutral."

"We need to give the Baltics support," England said. "We all have to stay neutral."

Estonia nodded. "I have no plans to go to war. It would never end well for me."

Latvia and Lithuania looked at each other. "I-I may be having a problem," Latvia said. "Sealand has allied with America and R-Russia with China. I am getting many, um, invites to ally with either side."

England nodded. "And Lithuania?"

A small squeak came from the other end of the table. "Oh, I've j-just been staying round Poland's place. Russia doesn't like Poland, so I think I'll be okay for now."

An awkward silence settled over the table. "We all met up at last minute notice, just to help Latvia?" someone hissed.

"My boss thinks I should probably ally with America," England said. "Is anyone else getting this kind of thing?"

After another long silence, France sighed. "Yes," he admitted, "much as I hate to agree with you on anything."

"Heh! None of you are used to neutrality," Switzerland muttered.

"Maybe that's because whenever I try it, Germany just walks in and kidnaps me," Austria growled.

"Okay then, Switzerland," England butted in before Austria demanded a piano to properly express himself, "since you're obviously so superior, how do you keep your neutrality?"

He tuned out of Switzerland's rant and frowned at an envelope on the table in front of him. He opened it up to find a message written in English and French – the two languages used by the EU. It informed him that America was going to threaten to bomb Russia, unless he distanced himself from China. The bomb in question was a newly developed nuclear weapon, and would cause far greater devastation than America's little boy or fat man.

England frowned. Assuming it was accurate, the letter contained inside information that no-one in Europe should've been able to get their hands on. "Is anyone here responsible for this?" he asked, holding up the letter.

For practically the first time since the meeting began, everyone could agree that they hadn't seen the letter before. England read it aloud. "It could just be bollocks," he said, "but if it's true…"

"We have a spy," Belgium finished.

"Right," England nodded. "The only problem is, assuming the information is accurate, we need to act now. We can't sit around and wait; the detonation of a nuclear warhead so close to us is-"

"It would be unlawful for America to attack Russia with a nuclear weapon," Estonia said.

"How so?"

"Well, it's a difficult subject, but unless the circumstances were extreme – deciding the survival of the country – I believe it was be illegal for America to use such a bomb."

"So we can prosecute?"

"No," Estonia shook his head. "That's the problem. Doing so would waste precious time and it's likely that your friend across the sea would deem us all communists and try to kill us too."

"That's not very PC, Estonia," England said.

"It is true, though, _mon ami_," France pointed out. "So what do we do?"

"Shoot anyone who comes near us," Switzerland suggested.

"I don't know," England said. He glanced across the table at Germany. "I'm no team-player and I'm certainly not a leader.

"Do nothing," Germany said quietly. "Just do nothing."

England nodded grimly. "That may be our only option."


	3. Chapter 3

That night, worn out from acting civil all day, England found a second envelope waiting on top of his computer keyboard. This time England studied the envelope before opening it. It was white and had his name written on it in red biro. Other than that, it was just like any other envelope he had ever seen.

England tore it open a small card fell to the floor.

_America is coming for negotiations. I wouldn't stick around._

The words were typed and, again, were in red ink on white paper. There was some French writing below the English, which appeared to be saying the same thing. England turned it over, but there was nothing on the back.

He placed the card back in the envelope and sat down on the floor. Could he trust someone who wouldn't even show him their face? If they were lying, England could be abandoning his country exactly when they needed him, but if the spy was telling the truth he could be saving his people from yet another blood-soaked war.

England picked up the phone. "Germany, can I stay with you for a couple of days?" he asked.

"Er, I dunno," Italy replied. "I'll ask."

There was a fumbling on the other end of the line, followed by a couple of minutes of silence. "He wants to know why."

England couldn't help smiling to himself a little. "America wants to be friends. And I think I've learnt my lesson as far as war's concerned."

"Ok, just a moment."

Another pause.

"You can come!" Italy said. "Just… don't cook. Please. Especially not pasta; yours always makes me want to cry. And we don't really have tea and you can't drive on the left and you have to know which end of a grenade to throw and you have to be okay with Prussia stalking you cos he always does that and-"

"Thanks," England said.

Italy didn't get the hint. "-if you're vegetarian I wouldn't bother coming and you don't have to wear lederhosen all the time and you'll need to work out if what Germany says is meant to be a joke or not and… and…"

"I'll be fine," England said. "Thank you."

He paused with the phone in his hand and hurriedly, as though someone was going to stop him, dialled Japan's number.

Nothing but that bloody answerphone message. England threw the phone at the wall, and then promptly picked it up and put it back on its table. He knew he'd need to explain to his boss why he was suddenly making friends with Germany, but he figured the politician would understand and would manage to keep America at bay.

If not, there might not be any UK for him to come back to, and England couldn't help imagining himself living in America's basement, like Prussia in Germany's.

He packed a bag and told his boss what he was doing and left for Germany's place.

* * *

It quickly became evident to England that Prussia and Germany were making themselves scarce around him. He didn't mind; this was an awkward time for the three of them. They'd been enemies in both previous world wars and now they were allies in neutrality. It was awkward for both sides.

England found himself spending increasing amounts of time with Italy, which couldn't be doing anything good for his sanity. Italy seemed mostly unfazed by the tension in the air all around Europe. The whole continent was just waiting for something to shatter the neutrality, already stretched thin between each country.

That night, England slept on a sofa. He found it difficult to get to sleep with the excuse-for-a-pillow Germany had given him, but eventually found himself drifting off.

And that was when the nightmare came.

Noise so loud, he was deafened within minutes and fire blinding his eyes and scorching his skin until he could smell the sickening smell of his own flesh cooking. And the worst thing? He was completely and utterly alone. No friends. Not even any enemies. No-one. And still the noise and the flames, but nothing but darkness.

Eventually, England managed to wake himself up with his screams. But the pain didn't stop. His arm was fire. He rushed into the bathroom and filled the sink with water. Even with his arm completely submerged, it seared with blazing pain.

Italy ran in after a few minutes. "I was sleeping-" he complained, but stopped when he saw England's facial expression.

"What happened?" before England could answer, Italy ran off. "I'll get Germany," he said.

It was a few more minutes before Germany arrived. He frowned at England, who still had his arm completely submerged in icy water. "How did you burn yourself?" he asked.

"Burn?" England asked.

Germany ignored him. "No…" he tailed off. "Phone your boss," he ordered. "Now!"

England took his arm out of the cold water and the pain immediately spiralled up to his shoulder. He gasped with the sheer force of it and was about to go back to the relative comfort of the water, when Germany pressed a mobile phone hard into his good hand.

Still unable to think clearly, England managed to dial his boss' number. He picked up the phone after eight rings. "What is it?" he asked, clearly more than a little irritated at having just been woken up.

England started to speak, but Germany snatched the phone from him. "Are you in full contact with all your major cities?" he asked.

"Um, yes," a pause. "I'm sorry, who is this?"

"You need to check," Germany insisted. "If you're too lazy to do it yourself, get someone else to. Get your emergency services to report on any strange sightings of lights, noises or shockwaves."

"Yes? And why should I listen to you?"

Germany glanced at England. "Because I have a Mr Kirkland with me and he is not doing well, and I think I've seen something like this before. Phone me back when you get the results. I'm not sure you'll think it a priority, but you must. _Auf Wiederhören_."

Germany hung up and tossed the phone aside. "Get your arm back in that sink," he growled at England. "I have some important calls to make."

He left the room, leaving the mobile on the tiled floor; presumably he was going to use the landline to phone whoever he deemed important enough to call at three in the morning.

England glanced at the phone and snatched it up with his good hand. He knew that now really wasn't the time, but…

He fumbled with the keypad until he managed to dial Japan's number. _Come on, come on_! But, as he really should have expected, the answerphone clicked in once again.

England threw the phone hard against the wall. The casing snapped off the back and the battery fell out. The three parts of the phone landed with a metallic thud in the shower.

England pulled his arm out of the sink. The pain immediately opened up like a blooming flower, but he didn't care. He sat with his back against the wall, legs drawn up to his chest. His arm screamed at him and livid red marks were beginning to flood across the skin. Sweat beaded across his forehead and his breath was coming in ragged uncontrollable gasps. It was like the pain had taken him over.

An immeasurable amount of time passed and Germany entered the bathroom again. "_Heilige Schwanz_! I told you to keep your arm underwater," he said. He shook his head and looked away. "Um, England," his voice softened as he crouched in front of the grimacing country. "Do you think you're ready to hear this?"

England managed to nod, he could feel his hair sticking to his damp forehead as he did so.

"Are you sure?"

"Y-Yeah."

Germany sighed. "Your country, I mean, York… it's been bombed," he closed his eyes and looked away for a few seconds.

England tried to take that in, but couldn't. It slid over the top of his consciousness like ice.

"A lot have people have died," Germany continued, "there aren't even estimates yet, but… the whole city is just wasteland. Your arm… You're injured because a whole portion of your population and land is gone. And it's not just you. Krakow, Innsbruck, Barcelona, Keila… there might be more… Europe is being ripped apart."

Still, the implications of Germany's words hadn't quite sunk in.

"You need to get a bandage on that," Germany nodded to England's arm. "I'll get Italy to do it. I'm calling an emergency meeting of the European Council of War… I'm sure you don't object to me leading it?"


	4. Chapter 4

The second meeting of the European Council of War was a lot more serious than the first. England, Poland, Austria, Spain, Estonia and Sweden had all been hit by bombs. One bomb for each country, and each bomb hitting a major – but not capital – city.

The bombs were Chinese; their government had soon claimed responsibility for the attacks, and they were indeed nuclear, though not quite as powerful as America's fat man, dropped on Japan in the Second World War. The reason given for the attacks was the fact that there was no way Europe could ignore a war. You only needed to look at the continent's history to realise that this must be some kind of trap.

Another bomb had hit Russia. This one was massively powerful, but no country in Europe had the exact figures. Apparently Russia was on the verge of breaking his alliance with China because of the devastation caused to his country.

Germany was back to his old self, holding the meeting with rules so strictly held up Lithuania had already had run from the room after being shouted at for interrupting. It was maybe twenty minutes in that England noticed the envelope sticking out of his pocket.

He reached for it with his good hand and saw that it was exactly like the other two; white, with red ink that spelled out his name. He struggled to tear it open without using his right arm. Again, the message inside was in red ink, but this time it was handwritten, as if the writer had been in a hurry.

As England scanned the page, the letters seemed to engrave their words into his head. The world turned black and silent, except for the crimson words in front of him and the dull throbbing of the burns on his arm.

For a moment, England couldn't speak. Then the words tumbled out of his throat, as if they couldn't be contained any longer. "We're going to be bombed," he said. "America thinks that our neutrality is just a disguise, and that we're actually allied with China. He will consume every capital of city of every European country in fire of an intensity never before seen by human eyes." England weakly tossed the envelope and letter onto the table.

For a moment there was silence.

"This can't be true," Hungary said eventually. "It's impossible. It has to be."

"Your little spy's previous messages haven't actually been proved correct yet," France pointed out.

"That bomb in Russia!" England suddenly exclaimed, having only just made the connection himself. He dragged out the crumpled letter from the previous meeting and passed it to France.

France just shrugged. "So a bomb hit Russia; any of us could have predicted that. Anyway, we don't know if the bomb was as strong as the one in this letter, do we?"

"No," England admitted. "But is that a chance we can take?"

A tense silence settled, broken by the bleeping of England's phone. He glanced at it and took a deep breath. "America's at my place," he said, "he arrived this morning. He's… He's in the process of 'aggressive negotiations' with my boss. I promise you that we will do all we can to remain neutral."

A few countries nodded; most were still in shock from the prospect of having their capital cities bombed.

"Can we trust a supposed spy who won't even show their face?" Germany asked. "That's the question, and we're all capable of making independent decisions here. Still, I would suggest caution in both trusting and dismissing England's letter. Until we have more information we should quietly prepare for the worst. The most important thing is not to let the press get wind of these rumours. Meeting adjourned."

Everyone gradually drifted out of the room. Latvia stayed behind to ask Germany about the bomb that hit Russia, but no-one really knew much about it at all. Before he left, Germany asked England if he could go back to his place now, seeing as America would probably be gone by the time he arrived.

Completely alone, England picked up his letter once more. He sighed. "Who _are_ you?" he asked the thin paper.

"…I'm Canada," a barely audible voice whispered, right next to England's head.

"Agh!" he shot out of his chair. "How long have you been sitting there?"

"The whole meeting," Canada shrugged and hugged Kumajiro closer to himself. "I kept trying to speak at the first meeting, but no-one noticed me, so I started writing letters."

England glanced back at the envelope in front of him. "That was you?"

Canada nodded.

"Oh… but how did you…?"

"I went to check on America, like you did, but he didn't notice. My boss was really worried about how we'd stay neutral, so I did some spying for him. A-And I knew you and France were in Europe and I didn't want you to get hurt."

"Th… Thank you," England said.

Canada looked down. "I won't be able to help much more now, though," he held England's eyes with his own. "I'm making an alliance with America, so he doesn't hurt any of my people."

A lump formed in England's throat. "Yeah," he managed to say.

"The attacks on your capitals," Canada said, "they're real, I promise you; I've seen the missiles."

"What should we do?"

"I… I don't know. But there must be something! America doesn't want to hurt you – not really – but he's been acting so…"

"Strange? I know. Thank you, Canada, and… just try to stay safe, okay?"

Canada nodded.

"Don't take unnecessary risks. Europe _can_ survive this."

Canada shook his head. "It's not Europe I care about," he insisted.

But England had stopped noticing him.


	5. Chapter 5

The continent was mourning the loss of some of its greatest cities. Each country was busy preparing for any future attacks – so busy, in fact, that they drew further and further away from each other and the frail unity they had shared since the outbreak of war was torn apart.

Latvia was expected to ally with Russia any day, now that he had no support from other European countries. Lithuania wouldn't be far behind, since Poland had stopped letting him hide at his place.

England was beginning to feel like he was trapped in a cage. He was a country who used to own the whole world, and now he was trapped on a tiny collection of islands, or feared turning countries against him and being forced to go to war.

America had attempted to get him to fight a few more times, but England replied with a no each and every time. He felt that America's patience was wearing thin, and remembered the warning from Canada, who had allied with America soon after the ECW's meeting.

That was what the European Council of War had become, now – just another acronym. There had been more meetings, but countries were unwilling to divulge any information they had chanced upon for fear of being branded a member of either side of the war.

England was back in splendid isolation and he felt like he was being ripped apart. Every day, sometimes almost every hour, he phoned Japan – it was an obsession, now – and he never got any reply. Not even any hint that the Rising Sun still existed.

He was probably lucky that he still had his friends, but England longed for the war to end. That didn't seem like it would happen any time soon; a stalemate had developed between the two sides. Both had massive nuclear weapons' arsenals, but neither had the courage to use them unprovoked. It was like the Cold War all over again.

This war had developed into one of spies and intelligence. America was lucky to have Canada on his side. Everyone was an enemy; you couldn't even trust your own brother. If someone didn't shoot someone else soon, the world would dissolve into pure paranoia.

It was the perfect time for an attack.

England was dialling Japan's number – kind of ironic, really, he supposed – when the world exploded into white light and his body seemed to disappear.

There was a sensation of weightlessness, then everything crashed against him. His body was bright with pain; it pushed against his mind from all angles with no respite. There was a faint smell of brick dust, but he couldn't hear anything.

England felt around him, his eyes still aching from the flash of light. His legs were trapped under a pile of rubble and he thought he might have broken one arm, but he was going to survive at least. He groped around the area he was trapped in for the mobile he had been dialling Japan's number on.

It had landed just a little out of England's reach. He stretched out at much as he could, but was a still a good ten centimetres away. So he was alone and trapped under a pile of rubble… well, he'd been in worse situations, hadn't he?

Yeah, being trapped alone was bad enough, but what if France had been skulking around his place and was trapped right next to him? Now _that_ would be unbearable.

Oh, great, was he delirious? Probably. Yay… "America, you bastard, I would kill you right now if it didn't mean allying with China!" he yelled but, of course, there was no-one around to hear.

England twisted around, trying to free himself, but he was completely stuck and the more he moved, the more lightning bolts of pain spiralled up his spine from his legs. Eventually he stopped and lay still. His ears were buzzing so loudly that he couldn't hear a thing, and it was hard to see for the thick dust lacing the air. For all England knew, the rest of the house was about to topple over and crush him. What would happen then? Could he really be killed indirectly?

He didn't think so, but had no way of knowing for sure.

Better safe than sorry, England thought and cleared his mind. The rubble crushing him flooded his mind, until there was no England; there was only dust and brick and plaster. "_Conscendo_," he said quietly.

The rubble floated about a foot into the air and hung, suspended. England rolled out as quickly as he could and was barely clear of it before it crashed back the floor. That wasn't good; to only be able to keep it in the air for a couple of seconds, England must have been in worse condition than he thought.

He checked himself over and realised, with mild interest, that he must be in shock. His right arm was definitely broken, but not at all painful – in fact any pain he did feel seemed to be dramatically dulled. Shock. Definitely shock; he should've been rolling around the floor in agony.

Since he wasn't, England tried to get to his feet. His legs gave out beneath him immediately and he nearly decided that rolling around on the ground screaming might not be such a bad idea after all. Nearly. If the bomb hadn't come from America, he wouldn't mind doing so, but there was no way he was letting that cheeseburger-obsessed language-butcherer have even a small victory over him.

He crawled to the area where the front door should have been and found, instead, a neat hole in the wall. Nice of the explosion to leave one where the door used to be. England dragged himself through it and surveyed the landscape outside.

The sky was grey and heavy with ash that still fell like dark snow. The only light came from burning trees and cars. It was eerily silent – although England still doubted he'd be able to hear anything over the buzzing in his ears, anyway – and there wasn't another person to be seen. England, leaning heavily on the wall next to him, struggled to his feet. He clenched his fingers into claws and locked them into the gouges ripped from the wall, holding himself upright more by his arms than his legs.

Cars were smashed into the sides of buildings; doors and windows had all been splintered and thrown inside houses; trees, lampposts and telegraph poles had all been snapped, some burning, some just smoking and some lying still like corpses. It looked like a scene from one of America's CGI explosions-fix-everything apocalyptic films.

Then England realised that it might actually _be_ the end of the world and was quite pleased that he was still able to insult America if it was.

He was distracted by a drop of blood falling onto the ash-grey grass below him. Was he bleeding? Absently, he dragged one hand across his hair and found a warm wet patch. When he drew his hand away and looked at it, he saw that it was covered in syrupy blood. Yes, he was bleeding. That was interesting; some piece of rubble must have hit his head. He didn't remember that. Maybe he was concussed. Yeah, probably. That would explain why the left half of his vision seemed to be at a 45° angle compared to the right half.

A small thud from behind him made England turn around. Most of the house's roof had just collapsed. His hearing must still be out to have barely heard something that would usually nearly deafen him.

He turned his eyes back to the sky. It was completely empty. Soon it would not be, England knew, soon planes and helicopters would fill it like annoying insects. Rescue teams, journalists, even politicians. They would all want their fair share of the destruction that had taken place here.

England sighed, feeling suddenly weak and he felt his grip on the wall slip and his legs fold underneath him almost immediately.

But he didn't fall. Brain fogging over too quickly for anything to make sense anymore, he turned to the stranger who had caught him. "Who are you?" he asked, or thought. It was hard to tell if he had actually moved his mouth or not.

If there was a reply, England didn't hear it. Everything was fading around him, apart from pain which was flourishing and growing like a plant in the Sun.


	6. Chapter 6

England woke up staring at dark green material. He knew he'd been in too many wars when he recognised it instantly as something to do with the military – nothing else uses that shade of green.

He sat up and realised he was in a tent with row upon row of campbeds. "Emergency hospital," he said immediately.

He glanced down and saw that his arm was in plaster, but it was still tacky. It couldn't have been applied more than half an hour ago. That meant that he'd probably been unconscious for two or three hours – although it depended on how far away this camp was from the house.

"You're awake," a quiet voice said. "Good. I just wanted to know you were okay. I have to go, eh."

England frowned. "America?"

"Canada. I… I knew what was going to happen and I didn't want you to get hurt. I brought you here."

"Where is here?"

Canada looked around as if he wasn't sure himself. "A couple of miles away from where I found you. They've set up emergency hospitals like this all around the outskirts of London. There's no point building them further in; there are no survivors in or near the city centre."

"London's gone? Oh great, what did that give me, a heart attack?"

Canada shook his head. "No. I don't know if or how it will have affected you, but you've got burns from the explosion and injuries from falling rubble and you got a high enough dose of radiation for mild hair loss."

"Please tell me that was a joke."

Canada just stood there. England noticed that one side of his face looked slightly red and realised that he must have been caught up in the explosion too, if only a little bit.

"France is going to have a field day with this," England muttered.

"Paris was also bombed," Canada interjected. "I told you all, remember?"

England felt like a massive electric shock ripped through him. "What happened to the others?"

"Switzerland and Lichtenstein are fine. Switzerland has more than enough shelters for its people, so it let Lichtenstein's population into them, too. Other than that, the reports are coming in slowly, and I should be back at America's place, anyway, so I don't know much. You need to get better, and then you need to contact the others."

Without a proper goodbye, Canada left. A few minutes later, a very stressed looking nurse appeared. "Hello, Arthur, it's good to see you awake," he said.

So Canada had given the camp his name. How much did they know?

"How are you feeling?" the nurse asked.

England, who didn't take too well to being patronised, was quite pleased with himself for vomiting at that precise moment. While the nurse hurried to clean it up, England just asked if he could have a phone. He was, of course, ignored and ordered to rest.

So, naturally, he got straight out of the bed the moment the nurse was gone and fell into an interesting heap on the floor. So, his legs still weren't completely under his control.

Determined not to lie around feeling sorry for himself (which was usually the kind of thing England was good at), he struggled to his feet and managed to lurch across the tent to a pile of boxes. They contained military issue clothes that were presumably issued to each patient. Sure enough, England realised that he was now wearing clothes identical to the contents of the boxes.

He reached under his new shirt and felt bandages wrapped around his torso. His clothes must have burnt onto his skin. Ouch. He had to have been pretty concussed not to notice that.

Interesting as this new revelation was, it didn't help England find a phone, so he left the tent, ignoring the stares of the other patients.

Outside, it was even more obvious that this was a military operation. Knowing that he couldn't just go up to a soldier and say, 'I am the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, can I please borrow your phone?' England skirted the edge of the tent, trying to locate the place where the camp's staff would sleep.

It was obvious once he'd found it. The tent was white, unlike the others, and about half the size. That meant that the military must be spread thinly across the camps dotted around the city. That, in turn, meant that the majority of forces were not working here and _that_ meant that more attacks were expected.

England, reminding himself that he was the best at spying of any country, felt across the band of bandage wrapped around his forehead. He slipped one hand under it and wiped the blood that came off on his hand over his face. England marched straight into the tent. He knew that he would look very strange with half-fallen-out hair and blood all over his face, and that he would also look confident and these two things generally stop people from questioning whatever you do.

Inside, the tent was a mess. There were about twenty beds littered with clothes and food packets. A few workers were asleep on their beds and a couple were reading or watching TV. England walked straight in and sat down on one of the beds, hiding his arm with the cast on under the blanket. "Ugh, one of them punched me," he groaned. "Right in the nose."

A medic glanced at him. "Shouldn't you clean up the blood?" he asked.

England shrugged. "Guess so. I'm whacked, though."

"Tell me about it," a voice said from underneath a pile of blankets.

"My uniform's ruined, too," England added. "Do you know where I can get a new one?"

The medic nodded towards a pile of boxes. "Dunno if you'll find what you need though."

England opened the box and pulled out the first set of clothes he found. Bog-standard private uniform. He pulled it out and nodded his thanks to the medic, before grabbing a first aid kit and leaving the tent under the guise of cleaning up his face.

As soon as he was out of the tent, England fell to his knees and threw up on the muddy ground. He felt as though his insides had been twisted into knots. He sat down and ran a hand through his hair, clumps of it came out and fell around him and he stumbled away from them and the puddle of sick.

Canada had said he had radiation sickness, but what if his country was falling apart? What if he was dying?

England shook his head, closing his eyes as the world swam around him. He headed back towards the green tents where the patients were. He was looking for someone who might lend him a phone, but ended up getting called over by a distressed medic.

"She's gone," the medic nodded down at a small girl lying on one of the beds. Her skin was dark with burns and covered in streaming blisters. Most of the hair on her head had fallen out and she was curled up as if she had been in a lot of pain. "Can you help me dispose of her?"

England nodded dumbly as the medic rushed off the get a body bag. Together they lifted the girl into it and zipped it up. The medic laughed when England asked if they should be wearing radiation suits. "We're all so green that no-one gives a damn anymore," he shrugged.

"Green?"

"Dosed up on radiation," the medic frowned. "You haven't been here long, have you?"

"I was just called in," England said. "I'm Private Kirkland."

The medic nodded sadly. "Well I'm sorry you're here, but we could really use you… Can you take her down to the pit?"

England scooped up the small body that seemed swamped by the adult-sized bag. "Yes sir," he said.

It wasn't hard to work out where the pit was, or indeed what it was. It would be a mass grave for the deceased patients probably hidden just behind the nearest treeline, so that other patients didn't see it and become distressed.

Mass graves do not become easier to see over time. They are one of those sights that turns your stomach over each and every time. This was one of the better ones; each body was bagged up and they were arranged in neat rows. It still took massive amounts of self-control not to vomit again, though, and England only managed to hold on until the girl was out of his arms. Then he was on the ground, on his knees, retching and bringing up only bile.

The soldiers working laughed at England's reaction to the pit, but it was that kind of laughter that you hear when people need a distraction from something unpleasant. It was several minutes before England had the strength to walk back to the camp.

"I swear I didn't throw up this much before," he muttered to himself. He also realised that he didn't usually talk to himself and his blood froze in his veins. He was alone – as in actually properly _alone_ – his friends had gone. No fairies, no unicorns, no Flying Mint Bunny. Where was everyone? They hadn't been killed by the explosion, surely?

More agitated than ever, England hurried off to find a phone. He ended up back in the white staff tent. It was just beginning to get dark and those who had been hard at work during the day were coming in, while those who had been sleeping were getting ready to work the night shift.

England sat down on a bed at random. His legs felt strange and he didn't trust himself to be able to stand for much longer. He knew from experience that people don't just let you sit and think, so he lay down and pretended to sleep.

A while later, when most people in the tent seemed to be sleeping, England crept to the bed next to his own. Its occupant had draped their jacket over the end of the bed. England felt around in all the pockets until he gripped a mobile. Then he dashed out of the tent, stumbled on a clump of grass, and landed awkwardly just outside. The stars grinned down at him unkindly. England only had fleeting glimpses of them from in between huge swathes of black cloud. He stood up and brushed the ash off himself. When he shook his head, a few more wisps of hair floated to the ground.

England glanced at the mobile in his hand. Who to phone first? It shouldn't have been his first priority, but he dialled Japan's number. Answerphone, of course. Germany's number was the next. No reply. England left a message to say that he was alive, but London had been bombed and he was injured. He didn't add that his friends had disappeared; Germany would shout at him for not being serious.

Who else could England phone? He tapped the moblie against his plaster cast. It made his arm throb slightly, but broke the eerie silence settling over the land. Eventually, England tapped out Latvia's number. He wasn't entirely sure why he knew it off by heart, but he did and was running out of ideas of who to contact.

"H-Hello?" Latvia picked up after three rings.

"It's England. Are you okay? Were you bombed?"

"Yes," Latvia's voice trembled. "Rīga – my capital. I… I think I'm g-going to have to ally with Russia. There is no other way my country will be surviving."

England sighed. "Please, just try," he said. "You know how important is it you stay neutral, isn't it?"

"Yes, but-" Latvia launched into a coughing fit, "-I need to think about _me_ not the whole of Europe."

England nodded. "I understand. But, please, we'll hold a meeting and see what we can do for you."

"…Okay," Latvia eventually said. "Oh, also, we've been measuring the amount of radiation being blown into our country from Russia. It spiked dramatically this morning and Estonia and Lithuania have found the same thing. We think Russia's been bombed, and with something very powerful."

"You think America might defeat him?" England asked.

"I don't know," Latvia said. "I just thought you should know."

"Thank you. I'm trying to get hold of Germany to hold an ECW meeting."

He hung up and stared at the phone for a while longer. Who else could he contact? He knew America's number, but that would _not_ be a good idea. He could phone Canada, but England didn't want to endanger his life. Other than them, he didn't know any countries' numbers by heart. Then it hit him. England dialled his boss' number.

He couldn't get through to him and a sinking feeling spread through England. His boss would have been in London. He would be dead. The prime minister; the queen; most of the cabinet… The rest of the country would be in chaos, and all the countries across Europe would be in a similar situation. They were facing a whole continent of anarchism and civil war.

England stared at the phone and, purely to help him feel like he doing _something_, dialled 999. Of course, the line was too busy and he couldn't get through. That wasn't much of a surprise, but it was very worrying.

"Is this why I keep vomiting?" he asked, but no-one was listening. "Splendid isolation," England muttered. He'd never been _properly_ alone until now, and it was tearing him apart inside.

He closed his eyes and felt the wind blow across his face. He tried not to wonder how much radiation was in it. Eventually, the sky became tinged with pink around the horizon. The pink deepened into the colour of blood, but the clouds blotted out the Sun, making it look like they were bleeding all over the land.

England forced himself to get up, despite the aching protests of his body, and crossed the camp to make it look like he was actually at work. He phoned Germany again as he did so, and this time got a reply.

"It's England," he said.

"How injured are you?" German asked. His voice sounded ragged and thin.

England described his burns and added that he'd broken an arm and was losing some hair. Germany assured him that that was fairly normal, though England wasn't sure how that was supposed to make him feel better. "You were near the missile when it hit, then," Germany said.

"Yes," England closed his eyes to try to blot out the memories of the explosion. "It… it wasn't good."

"That doesn't surprise me."

"I also keep vomiting," England said, "and I can't stand for too long. I… think it might be because my capital's gone."

"Yes, other countries have been getting that," Germany said. "You're lucky – the rest of us have it far worse – but since you have other capitals that weren't hit, you shouldn't get too bad."

"You mean Cardiff, Edinburgh and Belfast?"

"Exactly," Germany said, he launched into a deep coughing fit. "Sorry."

"Latvia thinks he needs to ally with Russia," England said.

"I know," Germany said. "I'm trying to organise an ECW meeting, but it's difficult to get hold of every country. Still, come to Dresden the day after tomorrow if at all possible. Don't let anyone know who you are or where you're going – we can't be bombed again, I don't think the continent would survive it."

England tried to say something in reply, but a wave of pain ricocheted around his body. He could barely breathe for the agony coursing through his system.

"England!" Germany shouted down the line, a little of the usual steel returning to his voice. "Is something wrong?"

"Shitshitshitshitshit. They put me on bloody meds!" he screamed.

"What's wrong with that?"

"THEY JUST WORE OFF, THAT'S WHAT'S FUCKING WRONG!"

"Okay, okay, stay calm," Germany growled. "Do you know where you can find some more? Maybe some that don't wear off in an instant?" he added sceptically.

"This is not acting," England replied through gritted teeth. "I'm disguised as a soldier; I can't just demand they drug me off my fucking head!"

Germany was silent for a moment. "Well, I imagine your cover's blown now," he said.

England didn't bother to reply, he was busy trying not to pull his hair out.

"Where does it hurt?" Germany asked.

"Chest," England gasped. "Damn, I was joking when I said losing London would give me a heart attack!"

"_Halt den Mund_," Germany ordered. "You think this has been easy for the rest of us? I told you: you have it better that the rest of us, so grow up and get yourself to Dresden!"

He hung up.

England staggered to his feet, clutching his hands to his chest, and ran for the treeline. Camp workers stared at him as he left and he heard someone shouting into a walkie-talkie behind him.

Lungs burning because he couldn't run and breathe at the same time, England burst through the thin line of trees and found himself on the edge of a completely empty park. It was surrounded by high stone buildings none of which still had their windows. The roads were empty and the whole place was eerily silent.

England took a few seconds to drag air back into his tortured lungs. Then he tore off once more. Dresden. He had to get to Dresden.

England chose a direction at random and raced down the road. Admittedly, he could barely manage a jog, but it felt like he was sprinting the way his legs ached and his chest wouldn't unclench.

After a few minutes, unable to run any further, he ducked into an empty building and collapsed inside the hallway. He was just so tired. Sleep. All he wanted to do was sleep. But England knew that soldiers from the camp would be looking for him and he had to keep moving. He forced himself to stand up. He opened a door to his right and entered a living room. So this was a house, okay.

It appeared to be deserted, but must have been left in a hurry. The oven was still on and the TV was switched to BBC News, which was covering the missile that hit London.

England hurried up the stairs and burst into different rooms until he found the bathroom. He threw things out of the cupboard up there until he found a box full of medicine. Unfortunately, the strongest stuff was a bottle of paracetamol. Still, it had to be better than nothing and England swallowed two tablets dry. They clung to his throat and he struggled not to cough them back up immediately.

Rushing back down the stairs, England had the brainwave to search for a car. He found some keys in a basket in the hall and used them to unlock the garage. Inside was a small Fiat.

"Oh, yay, an Italian car," England muttered, but he unlocked it and climbed inside, doing nothing but breathing deeply for a few seconds as the pain in his chest enveloped him. "Okay," he said, hoping the sound of his own voice might distract him from the pain, "all I have to do is get myself to an airport. I can do that."

He eased the little car out of the garage and sped down the road. At least, considering the lack of other traffic, he didn't really need to bother about the speed limit. He suspected that Gatwick airport would be too close to the capital to be open and so drove north to Heathrow.

The journey took half an hour, which was longer than expected considering the lack of a speed limit, because England had to keep stopping for fear of crashing when a particularly intense wave of pain washed over him.

When he finally arrived at the airport, he could see immediately that getting out of the country would be hopeless. There were soldiers and police officers stationed all around the airport, questioning the steady stream of cars parking up.

England sped off before anyone spotted him. He wouldn't be surprised if every plane in the country was grounded now that the capital city had been wiped off the face of the planet. He needed to get to Dover and find himself a boat.

The drive took three hours. Three hours of stopping and starting and staring at the wreckage that was once Britain. About fifty miles outside of London, the roads became a little fuller, but still no-one was obeying the speed limit, and the main roads, England quickly realised, were now death-traps.

Once at Dover, England abandoned the car. He left the keys in the ignition and knew that someone would seize the opportunity and claim it as their own. He walked down the A20, which was thankfully empty, and headed towards a large container ship he could see docked not too far away.

It was strange how normal everything seemed here. The Sun was shining – evidently the cloud of ash and debris in London hadn't reached here – and seagulls were crying out at each other in that stereotypically seaside way.

England made it to the ship, but he felt like he was going to collapse at any minute. He also had no idea where the ship was going or how to sneak onto it. He was still wearing military uniform, though, and hoped to use that to his advantage.

This meant that he was more than a little surprised when a voice behind him said, "I hope you're not thinking of sneaking aboard."

England turned round to see a man quite a bit taller than him standing with arms folded. "Um," he said, holding onto the pier railings to stop himself from falling over. "I need to get to Dresden," he said, his voice sounding strained. "It's incredibly important."

The man laughed. "Right. What's waiting for you there? Family? Believe me; I've had enough refugees come looking for a place on my ship. The answer's no, okay?"

England tried to think of something to say, but the burning in his chest was taking up most of his mind. "I have a meeting," he said. "ECW. I represent the UK. You have to get me across the channel."

The man raised an eyebrow. "And why would I believe that?"

England closed his eyes and wiped the sheen of sweat off his forehead. How could he prove it? How? Normally, he'd be on the ship by now, one way or another, but he felt like he was on fire. "I used to be a pirate," he commented, which was the first thing that came into his head.

"Really?"

"Yeah. I used to rule most of the world, you know. Now I'm stuck on a tiny collection of islands with dismal weather. But it's home, isn't it?"

"I think you're delirious," the man said. He took a step backwards.

"Yeah, probably," England said, tightening his grip on the railing behind him, but still half falling over anyway. "That's what happens when your capital blows up, isn't it? You go kind of crazy and your chest hurts. Makes absolutely no sense. I would kill for a drink right now."

"Wait," the man scrutinised England properly. "Were you caught up in that explosion? London?"

"Yeah, a bit. I probably shouldn't be walking around or anything, but I really really need to get to Dresden."

"For an ECW meeting."

"Yeah," England said, "I founded it, you know."

"Right."

Again, England chose the perfect moment to vomit all over the pavement. The ship worker jumped back in horror. "Are you okay?"

"Radiation sickness or something," England groaned, wiping his mouth with one sleeve. He doubled over, losing his grip on the railing. "Please, you have to take me with you."

The ship worker hesitated, but England could tell that he was unwilling to leave an injured and probably mentally ill man alone to die. "Okay," he said. "We'll to take you to Belgium, but you'll have to make your own way from there."

That was how, a few hours later, England found himself watching the white cliffs that marked the edge of his home disappearing over the horizon. He felt suddenly incredibly alone, and very very unsafe.


	7. Chapter 7

England managed to hitchhike his way into Germany, which was quite surprising considering he looked like the least-trustworthy person you could imagine at that point.

He had dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep due to the intense pain that would not leave his chest; his skin was peppered with angry burns; the bandage round his head was stained with dried blood; and his hair was considerably thinner than it used to be with a few bald patches. Every now and then, another clump of it would fall out and float to the ground.

Dresden was quiet and sombre. The people seemed far more organised than those in England – although they still ignored any speed limits – and had set up a system for getting food and supplies around the country, completely free of anything to do with Berlin, which was now nothing much but a large crater.

Lichtenstein was manning the door of the building they were using to hold the meeting. "England!" she exclaimed. "You're okay! Prussia said you got blown up. He was thinking of invading your country."

"Of course he did," England muttered.

"What effects have you had?" Lichtenstein asked. "You know, from getting your capital, um, blown up."

"Not sure," England murmured. "Just let me sleep, okay?"

Lichtenstein nodded and led him into the meeting room which was entirely empty. "Just sleep here. You'll be okay."

England collapsed into a chair and laid his head on the table. He fell asleep without even realising it.

* * *

None of the countries were doing well; that was immediately obvious. Germany and Prussia, who shared Berlin as their capital, were both suffering from some amnesia; France was acting like a robot; Italy had a massive temperature that nothing could bring down; the Baltics all seemed unable to speak; Poland couldn't stop shivering, but apparently didn't feel cold; the Nordics ignored absolutely everything going on around them; and Spain couldn't open his eyes because even the tiniest amount of light felt like it was burning right through to his brain.

Europe was dying.

Needless to say, the meeting wasn't going very well. No-one was able to keep on the same train of thought for more than ten minutes and only Switzerland and Lichtenstein were unaffected.

So, when Russia burst through the door, with tears running down his face, no-one even looked at him. "I cannot take it," he said. "This war is going to kill me."

None of the countries spoke, but they were all silently agreeing with Russia: this war was going to kill them all.

Why couldn't America have just let China drill for oil? If he hadn't kicked up such a fuss, China would never have blamed him for sabotaging any non-western country's chances of success. And if that hadn't happened, the tension wouldn't have risen, and no-one would have allied with China and threatened to attack America.

England finally looked up and glanced at Russia. He had livid red burns snaking across his face and tears burning the edges of his eyes.

"America has not stopped attacking me," he said, "and when I asked China for help he just said I should become one with him."

Germany nodded slowly and gestured to an empty chair. Russia sat down heavily, the usual aura of menace around him considerably dimmed.

"I'm scared," Hungary said quietly, all her courage and bravado gone along with her capital. "Why is America doing this to us?"

"Because he thinks we're sucking up to China," Switzerland growled.

"He's not exactly in his right mind," England murmured, lacking the energy to properly defend his son.

"When's he ever been in his right mind?" Hungary muttered.

"Whatever, does it matter what Cheeseburger-Face thinks? We need to come up with a defence," Prussia moaned.

A few counties nodded.

"Alonealonealonealonealonealone," Russia whispered rocking back and forth slightly.

"Is something, like, wrong with his head?" Poland asked.

Austria stared at Russia. "How much do you think he was bombed?" he asked.

"Not many cities left," Russia whimpered. "I'm so scared."

Belarus put an arm round him, but Russia didn't even notice. "My poor poor brother," she murmured.

"You're all going to die," he said, eyes wide and fixed on the table. "Every one of you. You're too weak. Become one. Become one. Become one. With me. Don't leave me. You can't leave me."

The Baltics all started shaking; they must have seen something like this before. Russia seemed to notice and stood up abruptly. The Baltics also shot to their feet, each one desperately trying to hide behind the other two. Latvia got pushed to the front.

He trembled with fear, but hadn't spoken since England phoned him and didn't utter a sound.

"Save me," Russia said quietly.

Latvia struggled backwards, but the other Baltics roughly kept him in front of them. The rest of the countries watched in fear. They'd all seen the kinds of things Russia could do, and none of them were going to sacrifice themselves for a Baltic nation.

Russia reached out with one hand towards Latvia's head. Latvia flinched and struggled away, but Russia was quicker.

He didn't push down on Latvia's head.

He pulled him into a hug. "You have to help," he whispered, his voice thick with tears.

There was a click from somewhere behind Russia.

America, one arm stretched out, straight at Russia's head. His eyes were wild behind cracked glasses.

England launched himself out of his seat, but there wasn't time….

The shot echoed through the dull air.


	8. Chapter 8

America smiled slightly as he pulled the trigger, looking like the hero from one his country's action films, but with greasy hair and cracked glasses.

Russia stared at him with wide eyes, but didn't move. He and Latvia both just stared at the figure brandishing the slightly smoking gun pointed straight at them.

The figure between them and America stumbled to the ground, hands pressed hard against his side, but unable to stem the flow of blood.

"CANADA!" the cry tore itself out of England and France's throats. America's gun fell from his grasp, but he didn't move.

France. The loss of Paris had left him unable to love, but apparently he was still able to have whatever heart he had left broken. He threw himself down next to Canada and pushed his hands against the wound in his side, whispering soft words in French that could only be heard by the blonde-haired country making choking noises on the floor.

England, tears pressing at the edges of his eyes, pulled the gun he had hidden in his belt out and, in one smooth motion, aimed it straight at America.

America didn't move for a moment; then he let his hand fall to his side. For a moment there was silence, except for France desperately soothing his son.

England stayed frozen still. Eyes like steel, fixed on America.

America just laughed. "We've done this before, _Mom_," he said. "You know you can't do it."

"Don't give me an excuse to find out," he muttered. The pain in his chest had morphed into an intense fire, burning up his arm and into the gun in his hand.

"Go on then," America nodded. "Pull the trigger. Prove which son is the favourite. Prove your fucking alliance with China. Prove that you're still some goddamn senile pirate."

England took a deep breath. He was about to lower the gun, when Canada screamed. Sweat broke out across his face. "Too weak," he gasped. "Too alone. You have to…" another scream tore itself out of him and he lay still.

Too still.

England roared and the muscles in his arm tensed and the fire inside him burst out of the gun. A flurry of bullets roared through the air.

Blind with fury, England had no idea what had happened. If America was alive. If _he_ was alive. He drifted slowly back into humanity.

Germany had wrenched his arm above head and there were five neat bullet holes in the ceiling above him.

"We're not fighting this war," Germany growled.

He let go of England and he fell to his knees, gun crashing to the floor beside him. Each breath took massive amounts of energy. Eventually, France took hold of England's hand and laid it gently on Canada's shoulder.

"I can't say I love him," he said, "even though I should. You do it." He stood up and went back to his seat.

England dragged his eyes over Canada. He still looked in pain, hands dripping with his own blood. Canada had always lived in America's shadow. It hurt England so much that even his death had been at the hand of his brother.

"I promise…" he began, but he didn't know what to say next. Surely any promises you say to a dead country are too late. Far too late.

Every country has regrets, but never had these regrets run so deep.

England stood up, a renewed sense of purpose beginning to wash through him. "Russia," he said, metal lacing his voice. "Can you still fight?"

"Not on my own," he whispered.

"Perfect," England turned around and took a deep breath.

"We are staying neutral, _mein Freund_," Germany said warningly.

England glanced at him with a slight smile. "Yes," he said. "We are."

Confused silence bubbled up from each country.

"Don't you get it," England almost laughed. "What were Canada's last words? 'Too weak. Too alone.' He wasn't talking about himself. I think… I think he's been controlling us for a long while and he knew that Russia couldn't die today. Because Russia is right. We need to become one with him. We need to become one with each other."

There was a long silence. Every eye in the room lingered on Canada's body. One of them had already died. How many of them would follow?

"We don't know what would happen," Hungary said. "What if there's no going back?"

England shrugged. He felt suddenly weak and staggered over to his seat before he fell to the ground beside his son.

Eventually, Germany called a break from their meeting. England immediately asked Belgium if he could borrow her phone and dialled Japan's number. No reply. _Come on_, if there was a chance he was going to have to sacrifice himself, he wanted to talk to Japan again before he did it.

France came up behind England. "We should deal with the body," he said. "It can't stay in here."

England nodded and they picked Canada up between them. They carried him outside, but they were in the middle of Dresden. What do you do with a dead country in the middle of a city?

France was the one who suggested they throw him in a dumpster. England couldn't do it. He turned away as France struggled to stuff their sun into one of the bins behind a restaurant. England started to walk back to the meeting room when he threw up all over the pavement. The world tipped and swayed. He grabbed onto a lamppost for support, but the world didn't stop moving.

_It's Canada_, he realised,_ he might be independent, but we still share a Queen. Shit, it's like I've got another capital destroyed._

Eventually the world stopped moving like a ship at sea and England was able to stumble back to the meeting. France had arrived before him, but was looking very green.

The other countries had started again without him. Somehow, they seemed to have reached an agreed conclusion:

None of them stood a chance alone. They were going to die anyway, so why not unify in the hope of saving the rest of the world? The thinking was that a whole continent should be able to defeat both sides of the war. Surely?

"Wait – please," England cried. "I just have to make a phone call!"

He still had Belgium's mobile and he pulled it out his pocket, hurriedly dialling Japan's number. But he never finished. Because there were two digits still to be typed, but no England to type them.


	9. Chapter 9

His head throbbed. He groaned and sat up. Everything ached. "Where am I?" he asked the thin air.

Dresden. He remembered now – there had been an ECW meeting.

He got slowly to his feet and wandered around the room. It was completely unremarkable in every way. Blue walls, tables arranged in a rectangle in the middle, surrounded by chairs.

America had been here, he remembered. He must still be quite near. He smiled. Good. That sounded like fun. He ran from the building and out into the city.

Americans were so predictable; the airport would be the most likely place to catch up with one Alfred Jones, and he knew Dresden like the back of his hand. It would be child's play to arrive before America.

* * *

The airport was incredibly empty. After the initial sense of panic, most people had decided it was probably saner not to attempt international travel during World War Three. America also stuck out among the sea of Germans. 'Stuck out' may have been an understatement…

"Alfred," he fell into step beside the enemy.

America started and frowned. All he saw was a man of average size with the pale skin of a Finn, but the dark hair and eyes of a Greek. Admittedly, the stranger seemed to have a spectacular case of bedhead (Scandinavia, the British Isles and the Mediterranean Coast), but there was nothing really remarkable about him.

Then he noticed the clothes the man was wearing; immediately recognisable as some kind of military uniform, but entirely in jet black. Not a soldier from round here, and it was definitely not a good idea to walk around in uniform if you were a foreign spy. "You're a country," he said.

"No."

"Then who are you?" America glanced at the departure board. He really needed to get back to his own country; it was dangerous to stay in Germany (heh, '_in_ Germany'…) for so long. And he was still creeped out by Canada's betrayal. Why would his brother follow him to Dresden just to take a bullet instead of Russia? It made no sense. Canada was on America's side. Wasn't he?

The stranger cocked his head on one side. "You're the hero right?" he asked.

America nodded suspiciously.

"You either die a hero, or live long enough to become a villain. So allow me to help you stay on your path to righteousness."

He squeezed the trigger of the gun he had pointed at America's stomach, but America dodged and then lunged for the gun, having left his own back at the ECW meeting. The stranger smoothly pulled America into an armlock and threw him onto the floor, kneeling on his back to pin him there.

"Who are you?" America gasped.

The strange man smiled. "I am the manifestation of 43,000 years' worth of war. I am the single most powerful and destructive force on the planet. I am Europa."

America didn't react for a moment. "Is that even possible? What did you guys do – _invade_ each other to death?" he sniggered under his breath.

Europa shifted all of his weight onto America and aimed his gun at the back of his head. "What beautiful last words," he said.

Before he had the chance to shoot, security guards were on top of him. Damn! Couldn't these humans see he was winning their war for them! He twisted against their grips, but there were too many and Europa was dragged into one of the detention cells of the airport.

A police officer stared at him from the other side of a sheet of plastic. "Okay," he said. "Explain."

Europa blinked at him. "I was going to win your war," he shrugged, speaking perfect German.

The police officer frowned. "We're not fighting a war."

"Let me out," Europa hissed. "You can't hold me. I'll walk away from here whether you like it or not, but you can make it easier for yourselves. I was born from war and I will end it. No airport security is going to stop me."

The police officer left hurriedly, presumably looking for backup or for a psychiatrist to diagnose Europa.

He laughed and crossed to the back of the room. Hopefully this wall was somewhere near an outside one. He stood side on to it and swung his back leg in a swift arc, cutting straight through the wall. It shattered almost immediately. "Oh, that might have been loadbearing," he commented as the ceiling caved in. "_Conscendo_," the pieces of ceiling above Europa's head froze and he watched calmly as a section of the airport collapsed around him.

He walked away from the airport, allowing the rubble he was supporting with the spell to crash to the ground. Maybe he shouldn't go straight for America. Time to attack an ally, and if he was going to keep to his theme of America's side, that meant finding Korea or Sealand.

Europa smiled to himself. Peter Kirkland – not exactly a worthy adversary.

"Okay, let's try China," he said to himself. "Shame I just destroyed the airport…"

There had been rumours lately that China was travelling around the Middle East in the hope of recruiting more countries to his side. That didn't really help though; either Europa had to find a way to get China to come to him, or he would have to go to China.

How much patience did he have… hmm, not much at all. So he would probably have to go to China… and that Boeing 747 over there _did_ look so very tempting…

* * *

"Hey, hey, America," Europa said. "Is it illegal to fly a plane and talk on your mobile?"

There was a pause. "Who is this?"

"Me. Europa. The Destroyer of Airports, as the history books shall know me as. I'm off to kill your enemy. Be happy."

There was some unintelligible muttering from America.

"Aren't you happy?"

"What are you doing?"

"Killing you and China and any of your allies – ending this war. It's kind of a shame; I like war, but it would ruin me, so I don't really have a choice."

"So why shouldn't I just go and bomb your continent into oblivion right now?" America asked.

"Well, you can try," Europa shrugged. "But the fallout from that many nukes would probably give you a nice nuclear winter too. And anyway, I'm doing you a favour; don't you want China dead?" he laughed and hung up.

Flying a plane was hard. At least the sky was pretty empty. At least it took enough of Europa's concentration that he couldn't really look at the grey crater-ridden landscape beneath him.

He'd flown over Italy and, knowing his continent's geography perfectly, had glanced out of the cockpit window, expecting to see Rome.

What he saw was an empty scar in the landscape that brought burning bile up into his throat. That was when he decided to phone America. Light relief.

Europa figured he was over Egypt by now – not _exactly_ a Middle Eastern country, but China was suspected to have come here for alliance negotiations. He dialled China's number on his mobile.

"Hello," he said, slipping into Russian. "I need your help. I'm in a plane over Egypt and I need to know where I can land."

"Russia?"

"Who do you think!"

"You don't sound like him…"

Europa sighed. "That's probably because I'm going to die if you don't help me-"

"Just jump out," China said. "You seem to like doing that."

"This is sand, not snow," Europa gasped. "I don't know anything about sand… And why haven't you said _aru_ yet?"

There was a short silence. "I stopped saying that when I lost Chengdu," China said. "Do you know _where_ in Egypt you are?"

Europa frowned. "Um, not really – I can't fly a plane."

China didn't seem surprised by this. "I'll see what I can do to help. Just keep circling."

Europa waited for about fifteen seconds, and then decided that he'd waited long enough. He pulled the plane a little lower. Could he just land, wherever he was?

Why not?

He scanned the switches and buttons all around him. Now, where would be the logical place to put a landing gear button? Europa found an orange button that was lit up. He pressed it and the air conditioning came on. Why couldn't he have discovered that button about half an hour ago?

Should he try another button? Europa stared at the console in front him. Why would he want to do a boring thing like that?

"Okay, China," Europa muttered, pulling the plane even lower, "let's do this, you son of a bitch."

The ground seemed to fly up to meet to the plane and a massive jolt shook the cockpit. Europa was thrown out of his seat. He grabbed for something to hold onto, but smashed into the ceiling before he could find anything.

The plan trembled and shook as it ploughed through the earth. When it eventually came to a stop, Europa found himself lying on his back towards the rear end of the cockpit. He sat up and looked around him. The lights were off and even from inside it, Europa could tell that the plane had been pretty mangled in the crash. He stood up and tried to open the door, but it was stuck.

"_Voco ventus_," he muttered, one hand outstretched towards the door. It flew off its hinges and Europa headed into the passengers' section of the plane.

Obviously, there was no-one inside. Europa used the same spell to open the door in here and whistled at the view that greeted him. He had landed on the outskirts of a city.

Cars and houses were crunched up around the plane, and the air was still thick with dust. Europa's phone buzzed and he picked it up.

"Who are you?" China asked in English. As the dust finally settled, Europa could see him heading towards the plane.

Europa tossed his phone down behind him and jumped out of the plane. He landed in a crouch and walked to meet China.

"You are a country?" China asked, pulling a small sword out of his belt.

Europa smiled and shook his head. "Is that a Jian?" he asked, nodding towards the sword.

China raised an eyebrow. "It is," he said.

"You carry one of those on you all the time?"

"During a war, yes. Now who are you? More importantly, do you know who I am?"

"China," Europa said condescendingly, "I have your phone number. Of course I know who you are."

He skipped to the side to try and get behind China, but China was ready and pivoted to meet him. "You didn't answer my question," he said.

Europa shrugged. "I'm Europa, okay. _Now_ can I kill you?"

China frowned, but lunged forwards with his Jian. Europa dodged forwards and swung a kick intended dig hard under China's ribs.

China managed to avoid most of the kick's power, but he still stumbled back a few steps and dropped his sword. "Europa?" he asked, gasping for breath. "As in… Europe?"

"The very same," Europa growled rushing forwards in order to get China to dodge a non-existent attack. It worked, and Europa slipped China's Jian into his hand. "Dying by your own blade – how poetic," in one smooth movement, he threw it straight for China's chest.

China jumped to the side. "Why did you throw it?" he asked, looking slightly bemused. "Surely you knew I would dodge."

Europa just shrugged. What a shame China hadn't heard him whisper, "_Revorto_," as the sword left his hand.

The Jian couldn't be seen as it made its return journey as China was, of course, blocking its route. Europa didn't know his plan had worked until China's eyes seemed to flash and his hands flew to his abdomen.

A red-stained blade jutted about an inch out of him, blood dribbling around it and down China's front. China sank to his knees, still clutching the blade and tried to speak, but only managed to spit more blood out of his mouth. Europa nodded and turned away, dialling America's number. "Nuke China," he said. "Right now! He's been stabbed, but he'll pull through unless you act." He hung up immediately.

"China," he said. "I am kind of sorry, you know. We were friends sometimes, right?"

China glared at Europa. "I don't know you," he rasped. "You turned up and tried to kill me. There is no part of anyone _I_ know in you."

"I'm less sure about that," Europa said, walking away with a slight _kolkolkolkolkol_ under his breath. He walked past Egypt who had been watching the whole thing with wide eyes. Europa smiled at him and headed into the city centre.

He spent the night in a hotel. Even continents need sleep. Still, hotel rooms are boring places and Europa had to amuse himself by seeing what the strangest thing he could order from room service was. They refused to send him up a pair of lungs, a scalpel and some local anaesthetic and after the next few tries of ordering stupid things, the manager threatened to throw him out.

So naturally Europa taped a letter to the door in the stairwell explaining that the showers couldn't be used due to dangerous levels of chlorine in the water, signing off with the manager's name and a pretty realistic-looking signature. Hopefully some guests would be gullible enough to give him grief for stopping them from washing.

Eventually, Europa realised that he was actually quite tired and forced himself to go to bed.

* * *

Faint roars invaded Europa's dreams and he couldn't get comfortable; stuck in that state somewhere between being awake and asleep. He was breaking out in a sweat, but also shivering uncontrollably.

"No," he murmured, eyes screwed shut, "no. Don't-"

But it was done. He threatened himself with the gun and a wall flew up, but he was on both sides of it. He was enforcing the border and desperately trying to cross it. He was killing and being killed. Invading and being invaded.

He felt the malice and the fear, the relief and the desperation.

"Don't do this to me," he moaned. But he wasn't just the country with the gun to his head. He was the country holding the gun there.

"I… I… I…"

He sat up suddenly, breathing deeply. "I don't need sleep," he said. He scrambled out of bed as fast as he could and switched on the light.


	10. Chapter 10

China lay on the dusty ground. Each breath was now just a gasp, a massive effort to keep him in the world. Egypt had left shortly after Europa.

Europa.

He still couldn't quite believe that someone – no, some_thing_ – like that could exist. But no human could kill him with a knife. Only a country could, and even then it was pushing at the boundaries of what was possible for each country to do to another.

But a continent? A continent could probably do whatever he liked.

A continent could ram a plane into the ground, jump out and kill a country. Just like that. He hadn't even broken a sweat. And it wasn't like China was a small country, either – he was a superpower – and Europa had dealt him a fatal blow in less time that it had taken him to work out how to get his plane out of the sky.

Footsteps thudded in the distance, getting slowly closer. Help? China could only hope so. He desperately clung onto consciousness, but he could feel his grip slipping.

A figure bent over him. "China," they gasped. "Hold on. You'll be okay. You'll be okay."

* * *

The Sun did not seem to share Europa's impatience. He felt like it was days before it rose above the horizon, tinging the sky pink.

Europa paused from rearranging the furniture of the hotel room in an epic game of Tetris and hurried out into the dingy corridor. He dumped the keys on the front desk and ran outside. He didn't remember if he'd paid for his room or not.

He went into the city centre and paced outside an electrical shop until it opened. He bought a phone to replace the one still in his crashed plane and checked as many news websites as he could.

The mysterious 'ghost-plane' crash in Egypt was attracting quite a few headlines, as was the announcement that Europe was joining to form one country until the end of the war (apparently the bosses of Europe had only just noticed that their countries' embodiments were missing). Europa sighed when he read that headline and took a break from reading the news to text as many bosses as he could his new number.

Naturally, he signed himself off as Europa, The Destroyer of Airports.

But despite several hours of searching, he couldn't find any story on the fall of China. There were plenty on Canada's state of civil emergency, which was to be expected, but China must still be alive.

Which meant that America couldn't have done any helpful bombing.

Europa tapped out a text to him. Eloquently asking him exactly what he thought he was doing, and did he _want_ Beijing as his new capital?

After receiving a few angry texts from exasperated new bosses, wondering exactly _why_ the countries of Europa had unified, Europa switched off his new mobile and decided to go find China.

The country must have survived their battle, but he would be in very bad shape. Europa headed back to the place where the plane had crashed. The whole area had been cordoned off by the police, but they didn't pose much of a problem.

Okay, so maybe he had to knock three unconscious since two witnessed him stealing the first officer's uniform, but it wasn't like he'd had to take out every police officer in the area. Which Europa was fairly sure he would be able to do if he had to.

He kept his head down and ducked beneath the police tape. The plane was crawling with forensic scientists like white ants. Europa kept away from it and focused, instead on the ground around the plane. Eventually he found what he was looking for; a long streak of red in the dusty ground. The marks left from China's wound when _someone_ dragged him away.

But who would do that?

Russia? The Baltics' memories swam to the surface of Europa's consciousness. No, not Russia. Japan, maybe? But he hadn't been seen since the first predictions of a war.

Europa shook his head. He'd work it out. He'd hurt China enough that it would be a long time before he recovered enough to do any more fighting. He might as well go after America again.

This time, Europa flew in the more… conventional way. The flight took ten hours, leaving Europa restless and incredibly bored. He spent the first half of the flight reassuring his many bosses that he had only their best interests at heart, but refused the many demands he was getting to show up back on his own continent.

After dealing with the bureaucrats, there was nothing to do. Literally nothing. Most people on the plane were sleeping, but… Europa didn't need sleep.

Okay, so he kept closing his eyes without meaning to, and, yes, he kept yawning, but he was a continent. He didn't need sleep. Didn't need the baggage that came with it, anyway.

"Shut up," he hissed at himself. "I'm a continent. I don't need sleep. I could sleep if I wanted to, but there's no reason."

He caught his eyes beginning to close again and bit down hard on his hand in the hope that it would keep him awake. A little blood dribbled down his wrist. He watched it disappear under his black sleeve.

Eyes closed again. There was a brief flash of flames and screaming, coupled with a flash of throwing a grenade. He fiercely wiped his face with his sleeve. Continents never cry. Continents never cry.

The businessman in the seat next to Europa frowned. He smiled back. "English?" Europa asked. "_Français? Deutsch?_"

The businessman nodded.

"I'm from Europe," Europa said, in perfect German. "You?"

The businessman shrugged. "Egypt. I go to many conferences in Germany, though." He was obviously uncomfortable with talking to the stranger he was sat next to.

Europa smiled. "Me too," he said. "I'm going to America to help with the war effort."

"Really?" the businessman looked a little more interested now. "What is your job?"

Europa's smiled widened. "Killing people," he said.

* * *

Europa headed out of the airport and glanced around him. Florida. Now, how to draw America here?

Of course. There was really only one thing that united the whole of the United States, wasn't there? One thing that captured the imagination of the whole nation. Europa took a deep breath and looked above him. "_Lux_," he whispered and strained his concentration.

The other spells hadn't been this hard, had they?

Eventually, a ball of light appeared in the air far above Europa's head. It wasn't as large as he would've liked, but he muttered "_viride_" and it started shining every shade of green you could imagine, until it crashed into the sea. The water frothed and boiled, until eventually the light dimmed and everything was still.

Now all Europa had to do was wait. Which would've been fine, if waiting was something he was good at.

The day passed slowly; Europa was completely worn out and struggled not to fall flat on his face out of sheer exhaustion. He started talking to Americans in obscure languages to see their reactions, but that got boring very quickly.

"Got to keep busy," Europa muttered without meaning to. He paused and checked that no-one had noticed, then sighed. Much as he hated to acknowledge the little voice that told him things like this, he had to admit that it had a point. If he stopped keeping himself busy then he would see… those things again.

He blinked and saw a flash of a battlefield, littered with roasted corpses and rivers of mud.

Once his eyes were open again, Europa saw a familiar figure standing on the beach in front of him. Brown hair, cracked glasses. America.

Europa dialled his number. "Hey, Alfie," he sang.

No reply.

"Look behind you."

Slowly, America twisted round. Europa waved. A tension crackled between them.

"Get out of my country," America hissed.

Europa shrugged and hung up. He headed towards America, who met him halfway. "How goes the war, hero?" he asked.

"The war's on hold," America replied.

"Shame," Europa commented. "Can I ask why?"

"Because there are people dying in China. His stab wound caused a volcanic eruption where there was no previous seismic activity. Massive amounts of farmland were destroyed and there isn't going to be enough food to provide for the whole country. His people are dying. Because of you."

Europa laughed. "Oh, come on, you were trying to kill them too! Weren't you, hero?"

"I won't let you hurt my people," America said.

"Then you should probably surrender now, instead of fighting me."

"Why would I do that when I've seen what happened to China? Seriously, dude, I'm not an idiot."

"Debatable. No, not debatable at all," Europa smiled as sweetly as he could. "Well, we may as well get this fight over with."

America nodded.

Neither of them moved.

"You killed Canada," Europa said.

No reply.

"I bet you meant to. You saw him standing between you and Russia and knew that it would be so easy… You never liked him, did you? I bet you wished you could've danced in rivers of his blood and-"

He caught America's punched and dodged the kick following it up. He was about to put America in an armlock once again, when someone else kneed America in a… painful area and stood, hands on hips, in front of him.

"Um-" Europa started.

"I am the great Sealand, and I have come to save Mr America!"

Europa stared at him for a moment. God, those eyebrows really were terrifying. Suddenly, the hilarity of the whole situation hit him and he burst out laughing. "Okay," he finally said. "Okay, we can fight."

America moaned something unintelligible, but he didn't try to stop Sealand from pulling his gun out of his jacket. "Okay," Sealand said. "Okay. So what do we do?"

Europa shrugged. "This," he said and stretched one hand out in front of him, "_fulmen_."

Nothing happened.

Europa frowned and shook his hand. He cleared his mind and tried the spell again. "_Fulmen… FULMEN_!"

Nothing.

Sealand thumbed the safety off America's gun. "I will shoot you," he said levelly.

Europa laughed, hiding the fact that his magic wasn't working. "I will kill you first," he said.

"No way, you eyebrow-less freak!"

_Eyebrow-less_? Europa wondered, but already he could see Sealand taking aim. Okay, so magic wasn't working.

He shot forwards and ran straight towards Sealand. As soon as he was close he slammed both hands down on the road and hit Sealand with the most powerful double kick he could. There was a high scream and Sealand crashed on top of a nearby building. Europa winced. That must have hurt.

Europa walked over to America and kicked him in the side. "You might want to check on him," he said, nodding towards the building. He would've added another comment – something to do with America's good taste in allies – but suddenly Europa felt faint and the world twisted around him. He caught his balance and frowned. This lack of sleep was becoming a real problem. He hurried away before America realised he had a weakness.


	11. Chapter 11

The map was faded and difficult to read, but there was no mistaking what it meant. He grabbed it and, amidst a chorus of ear-piercing alarms, raced from the building.

He found China and America in the meeting place he'd organised just north of the Canadian border, glaring at each other. Canada. A nation of looters and fear, now. No government. No peace. Almost everyone was hurrying over the border into the US.

But not this small group, huddled in a dark alley.

America and Korea stood on one side; China and Egypt stood on the other. The man with the map stood between them.

"I'm glad you both saw that there was no point in taking on Europa alone," he said, addressing China and America.

Neither of them replied. China winced in pain and one hand flew to his side. It hadn't even been a day since Egypt had bandaged his wound and helped him back to his own country. He probably needed more than just a bandage and some painkillers, but this was war. That was what the stranger had said, anyway – the stranger who had been waiting for them _inside_ China's own home. Like it was a proper excuse. This is war.

"I can help you," he unfurled the map. "I found this."

China frowned at it. "A… painting of a woman?

"Right," the man nodded, "and also a map of Europa's continent. It's called the Europa Regina. I believe it contains the key to beating him."

"What? That he enjoys cross-dressing?" America asked.

The man holding the map ignored him. "You could stab or shoot him; you could bomb or invade-"

"Heh, invade!"

"-him as much as you like," the man glared at America, "but none of it would work. I believe that you need a more concentrated attack." He stabbed the map. "One aimed right at Europa's heart."

China stared at the point of the map marking out Europa's heart. "How would that affect the countries that make him up?"

"I don't know," the man growled, "but you can't just let a continent walk around trying to kill you. I know what he's like. You need to dispose of him – the sooner the better. You see where the heart of him is?"

"Bohemia," China read.

The man nodded. "The Kingdom of Bohemia. Today, to attack it would mean attacking the Czech Republic, Germany, Poland, Slovakia, Hungary and Austria. If you concentrate attacks on these countries and then follow them up with a physical attack to Europa, I think that will end him."

"And you have what proof, exactly?" America asked. "Dude, you won't even let us see your face! You won't even tell us your name!"

The man looked away, hesitated. "Ceadda Douglas," he said. "Now get to work; plan your attacks."

America nodded, and he and his allies left. China, sweat plastering his forehead, also nodded, but his hands were clutching his side where the knife wound throbbed with every breath. Egypt helped him limp away.

Ceadda Douglas sighed and leant against a grimy wall. This had to work. If not… who knew what would happen. Europa was insane – that was obvious – and, to be honest, who could blame him? The violence and death he must have seen…. Practically none of the countries on Europa Regina still existed; either dead or lost or disappeared. Europa would have felt those deaths, but would also have the memories of causing them. If that didn't harm your sanity, Ceadda wasn't sure what would.

* * *

America rushed onto the roof of the cinema and scanned his surroundings. There. Sealand was sprawled over an air con vent. America hurried over.

"Yo," he said. "You okay?"

Sealand's eyes fluttered open, but he didn't speak. His face was screwed up with pain.

America carefully slid his arms under Sealand's body and picked him up. The small country's head fell back. America sat down on the edge of the roof so that he could properly support him. He pulled his phone out of his pocket to call for help, but Sealand's hand closed over it.

"No," he whispered.

They stared at each other. "I'm the hero," America quietly protested.

Sealand just sighed raggedly and stared at the grey clouds above them. His breaths were shallow now, but took all his effort.

America followed his gaze to a slight break in the clouds through which white light streamed and flowed like silk.

"I'm scared," Sealand whispered. He closed his eyes to try and stop the tears welling up – he was a country, he shouldn't be crying – but they ran down his face in thick rivers.

America wiped away the dark tracks left by them. "Don't be," he said.

But it was too late. Sealand would never hear those words.

America carefully laid the small country down on the roof and stood up. Fists clenched, he stared at the patch of sky that had captured Sealand's attention. The hole of light had closed up leaving a barrier of cloud.

Then he turned swiftly on one heel and marched back down the stairs. After all, there was still a war on, even if the enemy had changed.

Europa would pay for this.

* * *

This hotel room was smaller and darker than the one in Egypt. The lack of light did not help Europa stay awake. He was huddled in one corner, with his knees tucked against his chest. It was so hard not to drift into sleep now that he didn't know what to do. In fact, the nightmares were just beginning to flicker at the edge of his vision when a freezing wind clawed across him.

Suddenly wide-awake, Europa shot to his feet. The door and window were both closed. "Is anyone there?" he asked.

Silence.

_Idiot_, Europa shook his head ruefully and switched on the TV. Fox were talking about the plane crash in Egypt and how it was so totally aliens that abducted the passengers and crew before they died.

CNN were discussing the current state of the war. Specifically the panel on this particular politics show all seemed to agree that calling this war WW3 was a misnomer.

"Europe's neutral and we aren't even planning any attacks on China anymore," a senator Europa didn't recognise shrugged. "The media is just hyping up the whole thing. I imagine the president will draw up a treaty with China soon and our country will be at peace again."

Europa thumbed the power button and sank onto the bed. The war was nearly over… He should've been happy, but the fact was simply that he wasn't. The only reason the European countries had unified had been to bring peace, but now that it was near Europa knew that it was not the right thing.

What was a world if it wasn't at war? If people weren't dying and blood wasn't flowing? So many technologies had come from war; so many artists had been inspired by it, the world _needed_ to be fighting.

Peace? Yeah, that might be nice, but it just isn't practical. Humans attack each other; it's in their nature. Countries are constantly being formed and invaded and destroyed and captured.

Europa only had to look into his own memories to see that. So why was he trying to stop this war? He was his own person, wasn't he – he didn't have to do what the countries that made him up wanted to.

But what _did_ he want to do?

Europa stood up and walked to the window. Outside, the sky was dark, but clear. Stars glittered down on him like knives. "Who am I?" he asked the cold glass panes.

Of course they didn't answer, but the silence pressed against him until he wanted to scream. Europa. Europa. Without war what was he? A collection of countries that would soon separate back into their former selves. "I don't want to go," he whimpered. "I'm scared."

Shivering as if he was in Iceland, not Florida, Europa crawled into bed and fought the dragons guarding the doors to sleep.

He lay awake all night.


	12. Chapter 12

America had missiles aimed at Austria, Poland and the Czech Republic. China had missiles aimed at Hungary, Slovakia and Germany. Ceadda Douglas, the man who had organised the whole plan, sat in a café drinking tea and checking his watch.

18 hours to go.

Europa left the hotel he was staying in and headed towards the train station. He didn't notice the figure who left their still half-drunk mug of tea and followed, a few steps behind. He didn't even realise what was going on when the same person sat opposite him on the train.

"Where are you going?" they asked.

Europa shrugged. "New York," he said.

"No way," the stranger shook his head. "Me too."

Europa frowned. "Are you British?" he asked.

The stranger nodded. "My name's Ceadda. Strange name, I know. You?"

Europa realised he didn't have a name to give and just shrugged. "I'm not really anyone," he said. He didn't try to make conversation for the rest of the journey and, eventually, Cheddar – or whatever the man opposite him had said his name was – got up and moved to a different seat.

Interestingly, this meant that Ceadda Douglas was completely unaware of the fact that Europa was thrown off the train when he failed to show a valid ticket. So, while Ceadda carried on his way to New York, he was actually getting further and further away from Europa. Which was _not_ part of the plan.

* * *

At precisely 19:45, the missiles were launched.

Europa was walking down a fairly busy street when the first one hit. He staggered back as if someone had punched him and collapsed onto a nearby bench. He couldn't feel his left arm, but his chest was on fire. Wait. Wait. No…

He… wasn't having a heart attack, was he?

No sooner had this thought surfaced, than another missile hit and a gasp tore through Europa's throat. His hands flew to his chest where he could feel his heart beating wildly and erratically.

"Someone's trying to kill me," he whispered.

He grabbed his phone and, hands shaking, dialled Germany's boss' number. "Help me," he said. "Somewhere is being bombed and it's… it's not good."

It was only then that he realised the boss hadn't picked up. "_Nein_," Europa said slowly, still with his phone by his ear. "_Nein. Mein Herz… Mein Herz tut mir _so_ weh. Deutschland, es tut mir leid. Ich bitte dich – hilfe! Ich verspreche, ich werde den Krieg zu beenden._"

But there was no Germany to help him. Because Germany _was_ him. Swallowing deep breaths, Europa tried to clear his head. Someone must know his weakness; they were attacking his equivalent of a capital. But who?

Europa called his English boss this time. "I need help," he gasped. "I'm… being attacked. My heart. Bohemia."

But this call had also gone through to voicemail.

Another missile hit and Europa fell into unconsciousness. His phone fell from his grasp and clattered onto the road. Passers-by ignored the blatantly drunk man who had been shouting down his phone in German. Meanwhile, on a train quite a way north, Ceadda Douglas realised that Europa was nowhere to be seen.

He rushed off the train at the earliest possible opportunity and hurried out of the station while phoning his new boss – the head of MI6. "I need you to trace a mobile," he said. "Europa's. You have the number in you contacts. Tell me where it is."

"I'm sorry; we can't do that without America's permission."

England stopped walking. "And when has that stopped you before?"

"He bombed London – I hardly think now is the time to-"

"TELL ME WHERE THE PHONE IS!"

England hung up. A few minutes later his mobile rang again. His new boss stayed on the line just long enough to give a map reference and ended the call before any other words could be spoken.

Train? It seemed the best bet. England headed back into the station and glanced at the departure board. He had a two and half hour long journey to get back to Europa – or at least back to Europa's phone. For all he knew, it might be too late by then. His hand flew his belt, where the large black coat he was wearing concealed the gun he would use on Europa. The gun that would bring peace to the world with just one shot.

* * *

Europa swam back into consciousness with a sensation like vertigo. He struggled to sit up. The sky was just beginning to darken into dusk. His chest and arm throbbed with no rhythm and he could barely move.

He lay back down and shivered. So alone. So so alone.

How could so many people, just passing by, ignore him? He was so obviously in pain, and yet they just walked straight on past. Didn't even look at him.

"Don't you just love Americans," Europa muttered.

_Oh yes_, that mother with her pushchair would be thinking, _that poor man there might be dying… but he might also be drunk. I'm sure someone else will make sure he's okay_.

That man, there, with the thinning blonde hair and the red face and the black coat. He'd be too busy wondering how successful a comb-over would be, to notice the man with the thick black hair splayed out on a bench. They were all just _too busy_.

The balding blonde man, however, _did_ glance at Europa, though his eyes immediately settled back on his own path. He headed into the Kohl's across the road, caught back up inside his own little world.

How ironic that Europa, now caught up in his own (much larger) world, did not notice a man with thinning blonde hair and red burns on his face open up the storeroom window on the top floor of Kohl's and aim his rifle towards him.

* * *

Ceadda took breath and slid Europa into the centre of the rifle's sights. He could do it. He actually could. And yet… he closed the window. What if Europe could be saved?

Not Europa – the person – but Europe. What if they could just… un-unify?

England headed back downstairs and out of the building. By now, night was beginning to crawl in. The sky was a dark grey-blue and streetlights were fizzing into action.

Europa noticed the balding man from earlier heading towards him and managed to get to his feet. He frowned.

The man smiled back. He now looked quite a bit younger than he had earlier - too young to be losing his hair, and also strangely familiar. "I'm Ceadda Douglas," he said, having to shout since he was still quite a way away from Europa.

Europa just stared.

"I could have killed you about five minutes ago," he said and held his right arm up. It was holding a rifle. "I thought I'd give you one chance instead. Surrender. Let the countries that make you up go."

No response.

"It hurts, doesn't it?" Ceadda said, finally looking away. "I know… I-"

"_Fulmen_," Europa roared.

There was an embarrassing silence.

Ceadda Douglas smiled. "Think there might have been a slight spark," he said. "_Fulmen_."

A bolt of lightning formed from nowhere and slammed into the ground between Ceadda and Europa.

The truth dawned on Europa. "You're England," he said. "This is why my magic's so weak."

Ceadda smiled. "I _was_ always on the edge of Europe. I just kind of… dropped off…"

"So you've managed to get China and America to play nicely for long enough that they bombed my equivalent of a capital and now you're going to finish me off. Nice. Smart. They do the hard work and you get the glory."

"Unless you surrender."

"That isn't going to happen, and you know it, eyebrows."

England sighed, the world felt heavy on his shoulders. He levelled the gun and aimed. A flash of a memory that Europa did not have tore through his mind.

America. Stood exactly where Europa was now.

England shook his head. He was ready to pull the trigger when his phone rang.

* * *

Europa nearly laughed when he saw the reason England had lowered the gun. He was taking a phone call. How sweet. He watched England's expression carefully. Who was he talking to?

Obviously, Europa knew that there was no point in running. As if to prove this point, another wave of pain hit his chest and he fell to the floor. He was still knelt there, with his arms stopping him from falling completely flat on his face, his head hanging, when he felt the cold metal touch the back of his neck.

He slowly twisted his head round to see England, with his gun held at Europa's head, hang up. The beep of the phone seemed to echo endlessly in the black silence.

Europa turned his head back round and took a deep breath. He waited for death.

There was a clatter and Europa saw that England had tossed the gun aside.

"Who was on the phone?" he asked.

"Japan," England said quietly.

Europa flicked back through fairly recent memories. "He phoned you," he said. "He's okay."

"Yes."

"And he… apologised?"

"No," England said. "He doesn't believe in war." He glanced at the gun, now lying on the cracked road, and took a deep breath. Japan would never have held a gun to Europa's head.

Another missile struck and Europa's arms gave way. England caught him before he hit the pavement.

"So…" Europa whispered, "if he wouldn't kill me… what would Japan have done?"

England looked down at the continent. _His_ continent. He knew that there was only Hungary left to be attacked, and that it would be hit any second.

He took a deep breath – he seemed to be doing a lot of them lately – and touched his lips against Europa's. "I imagine he would've done something like that," he whispered.

Europa, eyes wide in shock, touched his mouth. "You…" his body pulsed with the final impact – the missile that hit Hungary and destroyed his heart.

He grabbed England's head and pulled them both into a kiss that was as fleeting as the first as Europa's heart failed him and he fell back onto the pavement.


	13. Chapter 13

England touched the empty pavement and a hand squeezed his shoulder.

"It's over," Germany said.

England twisted his head round to face him. "Yes," he said quietly.

"America and China aren't just going to go back to warring now that they've worked as allies."

"One would hope not," England said monotonously.

"We can start rebuilding our countries," Germany nodded. "I think it's time we phoned our bosses and told them that Europe is dissolving – as a country. We make a pretty good continent, but a pretty lousy country."

England smiled ever so slightly. "Sealand?" he asked.

Germany hesitated. Then shook his head. He sat down next to England. "That was when you left, wasn't it?"

England nodded. "I just… I hate him, but… I couldn't… I thought that maybe without my magic, Europa wouldn't be able to kill him."

Germany was about to say something – anything – to help, but Italy called him away. England sat alone on the pavement, ignoring the other European countries around him.

* * *

"Good to see you," England smiled at America. "I'll stop by again afterwards, maybe."

America nodded. His glasses were now done up with masking tape. "I… I'm sorry. I am."

England forced his smile to grow. "I know," he said. "You weren't… You weren't exactly yourself."

He left America's house and headed towards France. "Ready?" he asked.

France just nodded. They headed north in silence.

"So, I was thinking," England said, "we share it again, but… we do it right this time."

France nodded again.

Canada lay bare and empty around them. Its population was close to nought; it had no government; no money. But it was theirs – they had requested it.

A spoil of war, if you like, thought it was definitely a tragedy not a treasure.

Overhead, a bird flew urgently across the vast white sky. France laid a maple-leaf hoody down on a rock in front of him and England. England gently set down a pair of silver glasses next to it.

"It's what he would've wanted," England said. "You and me getting along; sharing his land instead of dividing it up."

France nodded.

They continued walking, despite the bitter cold and the fact that any civilisation lay behind them, in America. The Sun was just beginning to set and the sky was lighting up in spectacular reds and pinks and oranges.

Silhouetted against the sky, was a figure in the distance. As they got closer, England could see that it was a small boy, sat on a rock, staring at the sky. He must have crossed over the border. Maybe he was lost.

"Hey," England said when they were within earshot. He stepped closer. "It's getting late."

The boy turned to face him and France. He had golden hair that blew across his face in the slight breeze. His eyes were like ice and framed with silver glasses. He hugged a white soft toy closer to him and looked like he might burst into tears.

It's okay," England soothed, he knelt down a put a hand on the boy's head. His hair was soft, but a curl of it sprang up from between England's fingers. "Who are you?"


End file.
